Paul Doherty - The Devil's domain

Watkin and Pike reluctantly agreed.

‘Very well,’ Athelstan said. ‘Lift the bodies up. Pike, you go ahead carrying the cross. The rest of you can be my witnesses. Say a prayer for their unfortunate souls.’

The strange procession wound its way across the cemetery. Athelstan loudly recited the Pater Noster. Pike carried the cross before him. Watkin trailed behind muttering, ‘Bastards they were born, bastards they die!’

They reached the trench, most of it now refilled. The bodies were lowered, one on top of the other, Pike and Watkin ordering everyone around. Athelstan blessed the grave and muttered a prayer.

‘Well,’ he said to Watkin and Pike. ‘Fill the ditch in!’

‘Yes, fill it in,’ Godbless added. ‘What’s the matter with you two? We can’t leave two corpses out like that!’

Mumbling under their breath, Watkin and Pike began to shovel in the dirt. Athelstan looked up at the huge sycamore tree and then he noticed it. Part of the bark had worn away as if someone had tied a hempen rope around it. On closer inspection some of the branches were freshly broken, the sap still clean and white. A vague unease stirred.

Ah well, we’ve buried them now.’ He sighed. ‘And that’s the end of that matter!’

Athelstan felt rather exhausted, tired and depleted, so he decided to spend the day in his parish. He went up on to the bell tower and stared out across Southwark, watching the plumes of smoke rise from the cottages and the tannery shops. The people in the narrow streets looked like colourful insects scurrying about. On such a clear day, though the sun was hazy, he could make out the Thames and the different ships and barges moving along it. He let the breeze cool his face as, crouching down with his back to the wall, he reflected on the previous day’s happenings.

‘What do we have here?’ He addressed Bonaventure who had followed him up and now lay sunning himself on the trap door. ‘We have a lovelorn knight but, in battle, he’s a warrior who has taken two ships. Secundo, my dear Bonaventure, our beloved Regent may have a spy among the officers on those two ships. Whether that spy is still alive or dead we don’t know.’

Athelstan watched the birds soar overhead. For some strange reason he recalled his sudden departure from St Erconwald’s before Prior Anselm had abruptly ordered him to return. Was he pleased to be back? Yes, he was. For all the strife and blood, the petty annoyances of life, he loved this church and the people who thronged it.

‘Even though some of them are villains,’ Athelstan said loudly. ‘However, back to the matter in hand, my dear Bonaventure. Tertio, we know the French have a spy, Mercurius, in England. He is a bloody-handed assassin. He may be responsible for the deaths of those men and that poor girl at Hawkmere, although it doesn’t make sense. He may have used some strange poison and probably bought this from Vulpina. He undoubtedly found out we had visited Vulpina so she had to die. Quarto.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘We have the death of that woman at the Golden Cresset. Undoubtedly the work of someone who wants to discredit poor Maltravers. Quinto, we have the death of the Frenchman Maneil but, this time, he is murdered with a crossbow bolt, not poison. However, none of the prisoners, or even the guards at Hawkmere, have crossbows. And who else had been in the manor apart from him, Cranston and Maltravers? Sexto, we have the attack on Maltravers last night. He believes it’s the work of Sir Thomas Parr, I don’t. Parr would not stoop so low or do something which would leave him so vulnerable.’ Athelstan turned so his face caught the sun. ‘What else do we have, my dear cat, my comrade in arms? Yes, that’s right. The loose threads. How did Routier know how to escape?’

Both he and Bonaventure jumped as the trap door opened. Bonaventure immediately leapt into the friar’s lap. Athelstan tensed but then relaxed as Sir John’s great red face appeared, whiskers bristling, grinning from ear to ear.

‘I thought you’d be up here.’

‘Sir John.’ Athelstan held a hand up. ‘Do not try to get through the trap door. You are far too… well, you are far too large.’

For one moment he thought the coroner was going to ignore him. The friar had a picture of Sir John wedged in the trap door and having to be pulled loose by members of the parish. Sir John, however, had the sense to accept his advice.

‘I’ve seen Maltravers and that good-for-nothing Godbless. They told me what happened last night.’ The coroner’s ice-blue eyes glowed fiercely. ‘I wish I had been here, Athelstan, ferocious as a mastiff I would have been, striking swift as a swooping hawk. Maltravers still thinks it’s Parr.’

‘I know, I know, Sir John but, for God’s sake, let’s go down!’

Watching him fairly skip down the narrow spiral staircase, Athelstan was intrigued by how nimble-footed the over-large coroner always was. Holding Bonaventure, Athelstan followed. Sir John stood waiting on the church porch.

‘Don’t let’s go into the house,’ the coroner moaned. ‘If that Godbless chatters at me again I’ll hit him, while Maltravers appears to be more woebegone than ever.’

‘The Piebald Tavern,’ Athelstan suggested. ‘I feel like a jug of ale, perhaps a pie. Yes, Sir John?’

He strode down the steps and was halfway along the alleyway before Athelstan caught up with him.

‘You think those assassins were sent by Mercurius, don’t you?’ Sir John grasped the friar by the shoulder. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you, but it will wait.’

They entered the taproom, Sir John shouting good-natured abuse at some of Athelstan’s parishioners seated round the great wooden tables. Joscelyn, the innkeeper, waved them over to a window seat; the casements were open and the sweet smell of the flowers planted outside wafted through. The one-armed taverner brought blackjacks of cool London ale and a large pie cut up and quartered. He insisted on serving them himself, placing the slices on traunchers of hard-baked bread.

‘Do you remember that girl?’ Sir John began, smacking his lips. ‘The one we found hanging by the neck at the Golden Cresset? Well her name’s not Anna Triveter. She’s better known along St Mary Axe Street, just near Pountney Inn, as Beatrice the Bawdy Basket. A quiet, rather gentle whore who sometimes dressed as a nun to please her customers.’

‘I beg your pardon, Sir John?’

‘Oh believe me, Brother. In that part of the city, if you have the silver, a whore can act any part you want: nuns, countesses, even Dominicans!’

‘Don’t blaspheme, Jack!’

‘Dear Beatrice disappeared a few days ago,’ Sir John blithely continued. ‘Or so the scrimperers told me. Anyway, I’ve been to St Mary Axe Street and spoken to Peterkin the pincher. He’s a pimp, a salacious rogue, who entices young women on to the streets and arranges for them to sell their bodies while he provides protection. Now Peterkin didn’t want to speak to me. But, after I had banged his head a couple of times against the alley wall, he did recall two strangers approaching him. Hooded and cowled, he couldn’t say who they were but they paid him good silver for Beatrice and took her away.’

‘Two men?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Two. But, listen to this, Brother: their voices were disguised by mufflers but they were well accoutred, definitely English. Anyway, they took Beatrice away and that’s the last Peterkin saw of her. After that I went to see my Lord Regent at the Savoy. I told him what had happened at Hawkmere. Do you know something, Brother? Gaunt held a hand over the lower part of his face. I am sure he was laughing at me.’

Athelstan leaned back against the wooden panelling and gazed out over the garden. He recalled his earlier suspicions about Gaunt. Was the Regent quietly rejoicing over what was happening? Was this all part of some game that subtle, wily mind was playing? Making him and Cranston dance like puppets?